purgatory baby

tell me what you do while you're waiting.
i like to scroll through every disaster
that's ever happened. i like to throw
rocks at windows & hope that one day 
a glass will shatter & i will slip inside.
on the monopoly money is a picture of
my last crush. he told me he would
find a way to buy me a new jaw.
the deer come & sharpen their teeth 
on dead trees. the grim reaper kneels
& plays dice with some slugs. i tell him
i do not need the company. he laughs
& says he just likes it here. some travelers
pass by with their backpacks full of tea cups
or pots & pans. they clang down the trail.
the travelers like to stop & promise me,
"this will all be over soon." i do not know
what "over" means to them. often,
waiting is a part of me. an organ. i don't know
what i would do without my waiting.
i have never had patience. not for tangerines 
or strawberries or cicadas. i eat everything
too early. sour fruit. early birthdays.
when darkness falls i like to remember
what it was like to really be in love.
summertime. wildflowers. your porch 
& the sound of wind chimes. the present 
is always an unsturdy place. this is where
i was born. between chasms. waving down
cars & passers by to ask, "is it time yet?"
they shrug. keep going. the trees catch on fire.
i cover my ears & wait for the morning rain 
to drown out the radios. you used to 
collect the wind for me. now, you have
a hearth of your own. people don't go backwards
& i stay here. weaving baskets to fill with 
stray antlers & teeth. 

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